Freefalling
by yiangillium
Summary: AU."If there is a god, he surely never cared for us." Two men, one afraid of flying, the other afraid of falling. By a unfortunate chance, their airplane crash in the midst of nowhere. Under the most unimaginable and dire of situations, they end up with no one but each other, alone, isolated from the rest of the world. In which Dean learns to let in and Castiel learns to let go.
1. Chapter 1

eternal thanks to Cas for pushing me into writing this and actually continuing writing instead of giving up at the very first chapter because I have a tendency to do that  
and to Paola for helping me defeat my two best enemies; summaries and titles

* * *

This whole idea is nuts.

Dean isn't even sure why the freaking hell he had agreed to this because this is the last thing on earth he ever wished for.

It probably has more to do with Sam's goddamn puppy eyes than anything else. He has never been able to resist those big, begging eyes and look at what that has gotten him into.

A frigging trip to some far away summer resort in god knows where!

As if that isn't bad enough, it also means that he has to _fly_. In an _airplane_. In the _air_. It is a fucking suicide machine! To add up to all the horrible things in his life, he has to, due to his own stubbornness and some minor (read: major) arguments, take a flight the day _after_the rest of them. No Sam to bicker with, no Bobby to discuss cars with, no Ellen to nag at him, no Jo to be inconsiderately bothering. In other words; he is travelling alone.

This is a one-way ticket straight to hell and he knows it.

.

Dean sits in one of the restaurants at the airport, mindlessly picking at his nearly untouched food. He's afraid he might throw up if he puts that wanna-be steak in his mouth and for a very brief moment he considers if it is worth it, but decides against it. The situation sucks enough already.

Around him, people are chatting and eating, the sound of voices, clinking glasses and bottles, clanging cutlery against plates filling the air. He watches them, eyes roaming over the cramped place in lack of better things to do. Observing a person here and there a little longer, anything to keep his mind of the inevitable 8 hour long flight that dreadfully lays ahead of him. He catches the eye of a pretty blonde across the room, laughing at something one of her friends just told her. Dean lets his gaze linger on her and thinks to himself, that if this had been a bar and it had been a late evening, he might've gone home with her tonight. Unfortunately, it isn't, and all Dean will be going with tonight is a fucking flying deathtrap.

As if Dean's nerves isn't highly-strung enough already, an older man to his left starts to tell an anecdote about this one time, when he was flying -one of his first flights as a pilot, as he proudly announces- and suddenly the plane started to uncontrollably shake and how he, despite his lack of experience, had managed to make an emergency landing at a field and gotten out all the passengers before the plane caught fire and exploded.

Wow, just what Dean feels he needed to head. Awesome.

He leaves the table quickly after, mindlessly walking around at the airport.

.

Time passes the way it always does when waiting - barely at all. One can check the clock one second, then read a few pages in their book or go surfing on the free wifi for a while and still only a minute or two has passed when they check the the clock again. It's like the world has decided to let the suffering people suffer for a longer time because the world is a bitch and goddammit why did Dean ever agree to this?

He is freaking out now, completely freaking out because oh god he'll die on that plane, they'll crash and he'll die and he'll never get to see Sammy again and this is the end of it and fucking hell-

"Ouch!" Dean exclaims as he tumbles to the black and white chequered floor, wincing when his lower back hits the floor.

"Oh goodness, I'm so sorry!" comes a man's voice from beside him and Dean glances up just in time to see a man with piercing blue eyes and ruffled dark hair drag himself up on his feet, rubbing the side of his left leg with a pained expression. For a brief second Dean is captivated by the mesmerizing brightness of his eyes, but then the moment is over and Dean scowls as he struggles to stand again, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. He gathers the things that had fallen out of his bag and quickly scrambles them down, his hands shaking ever so little.

"Watch where the hell you walk", Dean sneers before the man has a chance to say anything more, and there's a surprised and hurt look on his face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you", the guy says again but Dean has already marched away.

If Dean feels bad about his rude behaviour, he instinctively ignores the feeling and continues to dwell in his panic. Goddamn airplanes, goddamn airports, goddamn fucking vacations. Why did he ever agree to this?

A hand on his shoulder makes him snap out of his thoughts and jerk around, seeing the same guy he collided with a few minutes ago.

"What?" He says, ruder than he intended to but he just wants to be left the fuck alone and mindlessly walk around so he doesn't have to think of how much he's trying not to freak out.

"You forgot this", the man says and holds out a bunch of keys. Dean's eyes widens and he quickly roams his hands over his pockets only to realise that his keys aren't where they should be. Reaching out, he takes the keys and scans them, confirming that, yes, these are his keys.

Well fuck. Isn't this awkward.

"Oh, uh.. Thanks", he mumbles and feels a hotness creep over his cheeks.

"Don't strain yourself." The guy turns and walks away, leaving Dean to feel like a total douche and idiot.

He glances around, noticing people quickly turning away their heads and some even staring at him with distaste, but he doesn't really care. He rather comes off as a rude ass than letting anyone see how terrified he actually is. It's not like he means to, god, that guy was just trying to be nice, it's just that it's so much easier to act tough when he feels weak.

.

Dean spends a good ten minutes, which feels like ten hours, with strolling down the airport, glancing into the windows of all kinds of shops. He's jittery, restless and constantly on the edge. As much as he hates admitting it to anyone, he is terrified and he's very bad at handling it. He handles it as he handles any other emotion that he doesn't want to show; by pushing it as far down he possibly can and leaving it to rot in the pile of unwanted things and never looking at it again. If no one can see it, then there's nothing to worry about. That's plain logic.

After another ten minutes, Dean decides to call Sam. If he's going to die sometime in the coming hours, he might as well have said his farewells.

"Dean", his brother answers after several tones.

"Heya Sammy", Dean says, finding it soothing to speak to Sam. "What's up?"

"Uh, we've just settled in at the hotel and are gonna go out to grab a bite soon. There's a bar by the lobby and I'm pretty sure you'd appreciate the women who works here."

"That's s'cool, s'cool", Dean says, not really paying attention as he glances around, cursing at himself for being so stubborn, else he could've been with them already instead of this fucking shitplace. If Sam notices how distracted he sounds, he doesn't mention it.

"Do they have flower skirts?"

"Dean."

"Dude, it's Hawaii. They gotta have flower skirts else I've been fooled my whole life."

There's a rustle, like Sam is moving and then a swishing sound.

"Uh.. I think there's people with flower skirts down at the pool, but it's hard to tell since I'm on the ninth floor."

"Are they hot?

Sam just groans and Dean can swear his rolling his eyes. He bites his lip and wonders what the hell is wrong with him, because not even the thought of hot ladies can distract him enough from the gnawing anxiety.

"How's the trip going?"

"Ah, yeah, the trip. It's good, just good. Fine, really. I'm in Chicago and I'm-... I've got a few hours. Just chilling and stuff, y'know."

There's a slight pause, where Dean has time to first straighten out his shirt and crumple it as he tugs his free hand down his pocket. When Sam replies, his voice is a fine line between worry and amusement and if he was here now, Dean would punch his arm.

"Are you freaking out right now?"

"Freaking ou- Oh please, Sammy, I'm not freaking out", Dean says, but the tone he says it in speaks of the direct opposite. "Why would I be freaking out?"

"You sure? Because you sound like you've done every time the past week and a half when someone as much as mentioned flying." Yeah, that bitch definitely sounds amused now. Fucking little shit.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's not like I'm afraid of flying", Dean grunts.

"Oh yeah?" Sam scoffs. "I can clearly recall this one time when Dad took us flying and you peed your-"

"We don't talk about that", Dean cuts him off, a bit too loudly, he realises and throws embarrassed and angry glances around him. "Yeah, so, maybe I'm a bit freaked out", he admits in a lower tone, glaring at a stuffed bear in a storefront as if this whole thing was its fault. "But I got legit reason to! Those things are worse than suicide!" He holds out his free hand to magnify his point, even though he knows Sam can't see it.

"Dean, we've talked about this. In about twenty eight years, only a little more than three thousand Americans have died in airline-related accidents, which means that flying is by far the safest way to travel. You're more likely to die in your _precious impala _than on that airplane."

"Wow, thanks Sammy, you've really mastered the art of calming my nerves", Dean shots out sarcastically. "I swear to god, I'll be one of those, what, zero point zero zero zero one percent who dies."

"You'll be fine."

"I bet."

"Stop being a sissy, Dean."

"Stop being a bitch."

"I'm gonna hang up on you now."

"You can't if I do it first."

"God, Dean, you're such a child. I can't believe you're actually older than me."

"That's 'cause you're too stupid", Dean snorts and hangs up, a small grin tracing his lips as he tugs his phone down in the jeans pocket. So maybe this won't be as bad after all. He just gotta endure eight more hours and he'll finally be able to punch Sam. Just eight hours on an airplane. Eight hours on a flying death machine, thousands and thousands of meters above the safe ground.

He can do this.

.

About seventy three minutes later he isn't so convinced anymore. His seat is cramped and his heart is racing and he can swear he saw the flight attendant smile evilly at him when he boarded. The whole lot of them are probably demons out to get his and the other passengers' souls and drag them to hell where they will rot in all eternity! He can bet Sam never included that possibility in his calculations!

Shifting in his seat, Dean idly wonders whether it would be worse to sit by the window where he can see the land moving far, far beneath him and make sure they keep the same altitude or if it's worse to sit where he is, by the aisle, where he can't see shit and which of the seats would be safest if they would crash. Not that he's got much choice but to sit where he sits, though.

They haven't left ground yet, but any minute now the pilots will start the engines and they'll set off towards a certain death. Dean can feel the excitement rush through him.

Oh, wait, that was dread.

Dean groans quietly and checks that his seatbelt is firmly secured for the tenth time since he secured it not more than six minutes ago. The stewardess has instructed and demonstrated about the safety on board and Dean sucked in every word she said like it was vital nourishment and he was a dying man -which, he figured, he practically is. If he doesn't die from the flight itself, he'll surely get himself killed in some other way. He'll probably be stabbed or shot or brutally murdered in one way or another the very moment he leaves the airplane, just for the irony of it.

There's an old man in the seat beside him who is already snoring loudly and Dean wishes it could be that easy, to just close his eyes and lean back and have a free pass to sleepy-land. The only free pass Dean has is to anxiety town in terrified-land where he'll be spending the whole flight. He's really starting to regret ever stepping aboard this plane.

A rumble is heard and a the airplane starts vibrating only so little, but it is enough for Dean to go rigid and grip onto the armrests until his knuckles turn white. He's trembling, forcing himself to take deep, calm breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth. In through his nose and out through his mouth. In and out, in and out, just keep breathing, keep breathing and everything will be alright, keep breathing and he'll survive it all.

In and out.

Breathe.

His eyes are squeezed shut and maybe if he pretends he's not on a plane but in his impala, not rising up in the sky in a death machine but on a steady and secure road, then maybe, maybe he will survive this.

A warm hand gently touches his hand and he startles, snapping his eyes open with a wild and terrified look, only to realize that it's one of the stewardess. Elisabeth, Dean reads on her name tag.

"We're up in the air now, sir", she says. "Would you like something to drink or snack on?" Her lips are formed in a small smile, as if she finds the sight rather endearing. Dean can feel heat rising to his face and he coughs and shifts in his seat, straightening up. Goddammit, how long was he sitting there like some kind of freak? He glances around, but everyone seems occupied with their own business. If he's lucky, no one saw him sitting like a fucking stick and he can be spared the embarrassment. It doesn't seem to be his lucky day today, though.

"Uh, yeah, do you have something strong?" he spurts out, offering a strained smile at her. He could really do with a drink.

"We do", Elisabeth answers, adding on, "against a small fee, we got some brands to choose between."

Right now, Dean would sell his soul for some alcohol in his blood.

.

If he's not going to die in a plane crash or get his soul dragged to hell or get brutally murdered at the airport, Dean is certain that he will die from the horrid food served at the plane. It's like they're trying to make every passenger throw up. Now, Dean isn't normally picky with food, but even he has standards and lines he do not ever cross. Ever. This… hella poor example of something supposed be food has crossed all lines food should never cross.

Dean scoots the plate further away on the tray, grimacing. He's not hungry anyway. If he eats, he's afraid he will throw up for real. Flying does unpleasant things with his nerves.

"Are you gonna eat that?" comes a thick-accented voice from the seat beside him. The old man is smiling warmly, gesturing at the barely touched food. Dean shakes his head.

"Nah, go ahead."

"Thank you, young man", he man says and pulls the plate over to his tray, digging in immediately. "I'm Eddie McMillan." He holds out his hand and Dean shakes it, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin.

"Dean Winchester."

"Pleasure to meet you, Dean", Eddie smiles and pops a piece of chicken into his mouth, chewing and swallowing. "You get used to this food eventually, you know, and then it isn't all that bad."

Dean must've looked very sceptical, because Eddie chuckles and pats his arm.

"I've been flying forth and back across the whole world more times than I can count, and it's better to eat while you can than to go hungry."

"I think I'd rather go hungry."

"You say that now, but wait until you've been sitting here for four hours and your stomach growls. Then you'll wish you had eaten this while you had the chance", Eddie says and laughs a little, demonstrating by scooping in another fork of food. "I've had my fair share of flying. Used to fly a lot back in the days", he tells Dean, in the way that elderly people tells youngsters about their lives, with a hint of nostalgia and a smile on their lips. Dean listens, partly there's nothing better to do, but mostly because it is a distraction and he needs it.

"I was a businessman, you see. Flew across the ocean and back every other month for meetings and dinners and god knows what. I've been everywhere, still all I have ever seen of the world are the insides of skyscrapers and taxis." Eddie chuckles, like he doesn't mind not having discovered the world outside the offices. Like he's satisfied with where he is now.

"My youngest daughter, Eleanor, lives in Honolulu with her husband and their children. He's from there, you see. Eleanor loves the place so they decided to settle down there about seven years ago, just after their first daughter was born. It warms a parent's heart, seeing your children do so well in life and create their own happiness.

"I thought that since I'm retired now, I could settle down somewhere near them, else I'm afraid I'd never see her again. It gets lonely, living alone and I never coped well with too much loneliness. Besides, it will be a true joy to see my dear grandchildren grow up. Last time I saw them, they were just small bundles of joy. Martha, Joey and Denise." Eddie speaks with such evident love in his voice, like they truly are the sunshine of his life. If his warm smile if anything to judge by, they must be.

For another hour, Eddie proceeds with telling Dean his life story, showing pictures of his deceased wife and adding on with the story of how the two of them met and fell in love, and of how they saw their lives as adventures meant to be explored and lived to the fullest. He has a bunch of photographs of his two daughters and their children in his wallet, which he also shows. By the time he is done and excuses himself by explaining that he is going to take a nap, Dean feels a lot calmer and his heart must be at least two sizes bigger. It's comforting in a way, to listen to someone else's life, to their ups and downs and not having to spare a thought to his own.

.

Four hours into the flight, Dean has probably read the 'Safety On Board' brochure more than twenty times, memorising every picture clearly in his mind. He knows it by heart and it does make him feel a tiny, tiny bit safer. Nothing will happen, he keeps telling himself, the words having become some sort of a mantra that he recites in his mind, over and over again. Eddie said nothing will happen, he's an experienced flyer, he should know. The calm that had settled in his guts after listening to the old man's story is gone and in its place is an uncomfortable feeling of dread and of being so utterly out of control.

Dean wishes he could call Sam. Just to check on him and see how he's doing. Not because he's still really scared and talking to Sam has this soothing effect that he really needs. He just wants to talk to him, tease him, bicker the way they always end up doing. Familiarity. That's what Dean wants. Some comfort, subtly requested for so that no one would know that he's in need of comfort and that they're comforting him, but likewise it would be comfort.

Checking his wrist watch, Dean counts the hours until he will see his brother. It will either be Sam or Bobby that picks him up at the airport, so it will either be five hours or five and a half. Painfully much.

.

One more hour has passed when the first disturbance makes itself known. It's only a slight rumble at first, a strong vibration throughout the whole plane, barely noticeable.

Dean is almost winning a game of poker against Eddie when the seat-belt sign lights up, indicating for all passengers to buckle up.

"Ladies and gentlemen. the captain has lit the 'Fasten seatbelt' sign. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts", a woman's voice comes from the speakers.

"It's nothing to worry about, boy", Eddie says when he sees the look on Dean's face. "This happens all the time."

"I'm not worried", Dean retorts, but he quickly fastens his seatbelt and sits up straight, eyes flickering around the interior, the game of cards forgotten.

"It's just some air disturbance. In a minute it will be over."

Dean wishes he could find comfort in that, but his heart is pounding hard in his chest and he tries to tell himself he isn't terrified. Eddie is an experienced flyer and despite having just met him, Dean trusts his judgement.

Only it's hard to calm down when he's an inch from freaking out again. Goddamn fucking airplanes. Dean swears that if he gets out of this alive, he'll never set his foot in an airplane again, if it so means he has to walk -and swim- back to Sioux Falls.

Then there's another rumble, almost deafening, directly followed by a violent jolt, leaving the whole plane shaking. The pilot is saying something through the speakers, his voice calm but in a strained way, a tone too deep to be truly reassuring. Not that Dean hears a word that is being said, anyway. The stewardesses are doing their best to restore the calm and ease away the panic but how could they possibly succeed when people are so frightened, dreading for the lives and wondering if they'll get home to their loved ones safely or if their goodbyes were forever. Another jolt and this time it doesn't stop. Above their heads the oxygen masks comes down and Dean struggles to get on his, but his hands are shaking and everything is shaking. He feels a hand on his shoulder and jerks his head up, meeting Eddie's steady gaze.

"We'll be fine", he says and gives a reassuring nod, before putting on his own mask and Dean nods back, determinedly pulls the mask over his face and taking a deep gasp.

Dean grips the arm rests tightly and does his very best to control his fear, to be strong, but it's hard when every bad dream he's had about flying is becoming reality. He recites Eddie's words over and over again, telling himself that they'll soon go back to normal and then it will only be a few hours more until they reach their destination and he will see Sam and goddammit, to hell with pride and reputation because he'll give his little brother a bone crushing hug and not until then will Dean be able to relax.

Suddenly there's a frightful drop, the plane losing altitude fast by every second, shaking dangerously and even Eddie looks scared now because this just isn't happening, it can't be happening, it isn't fucking supposed to happen, this is not how it should go and Dean can see the ground, the ground closing in with too much speed and at this rate the pilots won't be able to straighten the plane out before it's too late and he feels that tug at his gut like when one is falling quickly and he can hear Eddie pray to his left but he doesn't actually hear it because he's terrified, he so scared he can't move he can't think he can't breathe and he wishes so badly that he had told Sam that he loves him but there's-


	2. Chapter 2

i might add that after i started writing this story, i watched about a shitload of survival movies to get inspiration, and since i never been on a tropical island and even less crashed on one, it might happen that certain parts of this fic will resemble certain details from various movies

* * *

A throbbing pain throughout his whole body slowly drags him into consciousness, but his eyes are heavy and he doesn't want to open them, doesn't want to be awake. He wants to sink back into the dull darkness, into numbness, into the oblivion he felt so soothed by, but he can't ignore the pain so he forces his eyes open and stares up at a blue sky through impossibly green treetops. There's a low rustle of leaves in the wind, there's birdsong in the distance and the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Dean would feel comforted by it, had it not been that this is so wrong. So terribly wrong that he can't begin to describe how wrong it is.

Airplane. Crash. Pain.

Dean's heart races in his chest and he has to take deep breaths to calm down and focus, because he has no idea where he is or how badly injured he is or anything at all really. So he counts to ten and decides to be fine when he's done. It almost works.

This is the only way he can do it, this is the only way he can cope with the situation without freaking out; to rationalize what's happened and not think too hard because thinking too hard never ends in a good way and Dean really can't afford to let his thoughts stray and lose control. He needs control to be able to cope, so he offers himself whatever control he can grip onto and clings to it for dear life.

He starts by localizing which part of his body that hurts the most, and judging by the searing flash of pain shooting up from his right wrist when he tries to move it, it has taken a pretty bad hit. If he's really unlucky, which he seems to be, it is broken and not just sprained.

After a further examination Dean figures that he could be so, so very much worse off than he is and that maybe he had some luck after all. At least he's not dead and he counts that as a win because it means he might actually get to see Sam again and preferably yell at him for making Dean join the goddamn vacation and then most likely punch him and hug him so hard that at least a few bones will break. He deserves that.

When Dean finally manages to get up onto his feet, he realises that they won't carry him properly and he has to grab ahold of a tree to not stumble. His left foot hurts like a bitch when he puts any weight on it, and Dean has had enough sprained ankles in his life to know one instantly.

.

It takes more than a little effort to get through the forest, party because he has no idea where he is headed, and for all he knows, he can just as well be walking deeper into the woods, but mostly because he has to stop every other minute to let his foot rest. He just follows the sound of crashing waves and hopes that it will lead him to the remains of the plane and the other survivors, because he can't be the only one alive. There must be someone else. Hell, he watched Lost with Sam when it was on TV some years back and there they were at least forty survivors, which means the odds aren't too bad, right?

Dean grits his teeth, hands curled into hard fists as he pushes forward, his face pale with strain. Leaning back against a tree trunk, he breathes heavily and-

A rush of adrenaline strengthens him as he catches sight of the shore, of waves crashing against the sand and he's soon there! He'll find the other survivors from the crash and he won't be alone in this freaking place and together they can get contact with the mainland and get someone to save them and he'll get to see Sam-

He abruptly stops as he catches himself staring at the remains of the plane, the black smoke still trailing up the sky. This is what he expected to see but to actually see it, to have proof that it is truly real feels like a punch in the guts.

Then he runs.

Stumbling desperately across the beach, his feet sliding in the sand as he runs, pain shooting through him like daggers with every step but he keeps on, he keeps on moving because if he stops he's afraid he'll never be able to take another step again. He's terrified of what he'll see but he can't stop, can't look the other way because he _has to face this_.

There are bodies- on the ground, burnt, scattered, crushed under the weight of the plane, torn apart by the explosion- dead bodies- bodies of people with homes and families and friends and hopes and wishes and dreams and-

No.

No.

No no no no-

This isn't happening.

This can't be happening.

It can't be real, it just can't be fucking real, there is no chance this is real, this is all just a stupid fucking dream and Dean will wake any second now, any second he will be in his bed, and it will all turn out to be a very bad dream and he will take a long shower and eat breakfast and never think of this again-

No.

Dean inhales deeply and steels himself, straightening his back and replacing the panic in his eyes with a hard glance. There's no time to freak out, there's no time to waste at all. He'll get the chance to do that later, whatever will come then.

Now is the time to act. He has to make his way around, check if there's any other survivors, maybe stuck in the plane, or laying hurt and unconscious in the sand. If there's not, and he's alone, he will deal with that later.

While stumbling over the hot sand, dodging the scattered parts of metal, Dean makes a mental list of what needs to be done, regardless the amount of survivors. A fire, a big one, so the rescue team will find them easier. Gathering the food that is left, if there is any, and ransoming it. Water is high on the list as well. He would add making a camp to the list, because he would feel safer in one, but since they'll hopefully get saved soon, he fails to see the point.

By now, he has reached the big gash that cuts through the body of the plane, leaving a gaping hole right into the interior. Dean isn't sure he'll be able to climb in, not in his state, but he forces himself to do it anyway. Lives are at the stake here and he won't forgive himself if one is lost because he couldn't handle some pain. So he climbs. It takes several minutes and he is exhausted once he's in, but he makes it. For what, he asks himself after casting a glance around.

The interior is a mess. It looks like someone went berserk on the place, throwing around luggage and seats, and Dean forces himself to not let his gaze get locked on the body of one of the stewardesses that lays unnervingly still only a step away from him, her eyes unseeing and empty, blood pooling around her.

Dean sucks in a breath, urging himself to move on. He takes a few careful, trying steps forward, afraid to set something into motion and possibly bury them all under tons of metal. The nearest row of seats is empty, save for a purse thrown beside two seats. Dean doesn't even need to check the pulse of the next row, where a couple sits, because he can tell they're long gone. He closes his eyes, exhaling and inhaling. He can do this. He has to do this.

It's not like he's never seen dead bodies before, just… Never up so close, never like this. But he can't afford to lose focus and let his emotions get the best of him.

Continuing down, Dean gets more desperate to find a living soul, but they all gone, all dead and he feels vomit in the back of his mouth. He refuses to let his eyes scan the number of seats and do the easy headcount to where he sat, to where the old man sat, because he isn't sure he could handle that. Actually, he's very sure he can't.

He stops, catching his breath, and accidentally meets the empty eyes of a young boy. Dean can't take his eyes of the boy for two reasons; his arms are clutched around a big stuffed bunny and even though his body is limp, all strength in the embrace gone, it still looks like he's clinging to the animal for dear life, like it will protect him from everything. But what makes Dean's throat tighten and his eyes prickle with tears, his breath hitching and his body trembling, what makes panic rise in his body is the boy's striking similarity to his Sammy, when he was this young, and for a moment, a dreadful and horrifying second, Dean sees Sam, sitting there in the seat with a lifeless stare and a stuffed bunny against his chest.

Dean can barely remember how he got out of the plane, can barely remember how he got the new bruises on his legs and why he has scrapes on his palms, or when he stopped desperately crawling and stumbling away in the sand and started emptying the contents of his stomach onto the beach.

All he knows is that he doesn't want this anymore. He can't take it.

So he curls up, legs pressed against his chest, arms wrapped around himself and head down between his knees. Breathe in, breathe out.

.

A groan is heard and Dean snaps his eyes open. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there and it takes a moment for him to come back to reality, but when he does, he wishes he hadn't. What had made him snap out of his trance, his retreat into himself? He can't recall.

Until he hears it again.

A low, deep groan of pain. Dean pushes himself up on his feet and glances around, his eyes red from crying, but he can't remember starting or stopping crying. He shakes his head clear and tries to locate the sound, sets off towards it before he can even think. He can barely feel the dull ache in his ankle, there's only the distant pounding of his heartbeat in his ears and the sound of his heavy breathing.

The sound comes from the other side of the wreck, the side that Dean has yet to explore. He runs, feet sliding in the sand, knees bruising even more every time he trips, but it _doesn't matter_. There's someone else alive, someone else who has survived and that means everything.

Half buried beneath a big metal piece Dean finds a man, barely conscious enough to react when Dean throws himself onto his knees and checks his pulse, checks his breathing and tries to get him awake. The man looks vaguely familiar, but that is of no importance so Dean discards the thought and focuses on getting the man awake and making sure he survives.

"Hey! Wake up!", Dean demands roughly, slapping the man's cheeks. "C'mon, wake up!"

Dean's breathing is ragged and strained as he shifts position and does a quick check for severe wounds on his body, but he's no doctor and despite having a fairly big knowledge on how to treat wounds, he has no equipment and god just let the man not have life-threatening damage because Dean doesn't want to have to make this on his own.

The man groans again and Dean quickly returns his focus to the task of getting the man into consciousness.

"Hey, can you hear me?"

The only answer he gets is more groaning and Dean makes up his mind about two things.

One, he needs to somehow get the metal part away from the guy and check the damage of his lower body, and two, he needs to get him some water,

He gets up, moving over to try to push the metal piece off, but it's heavy and Dean's whole body is shaking with strain and effort. It's not impossible for him to lift it, though, just high enough for the man to crawl out himself. That, however, requires his consciousness and strength enough to move on his own.

So Dean starts searching for water, because they both need it. He hasn't realised how dry his mouth is and that his lips are chapped, but now that the thought has crossed his mind, he can't stop thinking about it and he craves water so badly.

Roughly twenty seven feet away, Dean finds a trashed backpack and when he rummages through it, he finds a half-empty bottle of lukewarm water. With shaking hands he pulls off the cap and gulps down a third of the soothing liquid, closing his eyes as he lowers the bottle and taking a short moment to gather himself before pulling on the cap and returning to the man. He kneels, carefully sliding his good hand beneath the man's head, tilting it upwards just a little as he holds the tip of the bottle against his lips.

The man coughs, shifts, flickering his eyes open and grimacing in pain.

"Stay still", Dean immediately orders, stopping his weak attempt to get up. "You're stuck under this metal piece here, and I'm going to try to get you free, but I need you to help me, okay?" Once the man nods, Dean continues; "I will count to three, then I'll lift it and you'll pull yourself out as fast as you can. You think you can do that?"

The guy nods again, so Dean positions himself by the metal part and prays to god that he'll be strong enough. He has to be.

"One…" He prepares himself, hardening his body and focusing all his strength at one point. "Two…" Deep breath. "Three!" And he pushes with all force he can muster, the metal cutting into his shoulder but he grits his teeth and keeps it up, those long, painful seconds it takes for the guy to crawl into safety. Dean drops the heavy piece and collapses back at the sand, panting hard, his chest heaving up and down as he tries to catch his breath. An arm's length away, the man is breathing just as heavily, eyes closed in a strained expression, but Dean doesn't have the energy to check on him right now.

"Thank you", the guy says, his voice deeper and darker than Dean imagined, pleasant in a way. "Do you have more water?"

Dean just grunts as answer, handing over the bottle.

.

"What happened?", the man asks after some minutes of silence, like he doesn't know, as if it isn't obvious enough with a single glance around them. Maybe he just wants it confirmed, to hear it being said out loud. Dean closes his eyes, wishing he could wake up and find out this is all a bad, bad dream.

"The plane crashed", Dean says. He snaps his eyes open again, the empty stare of the boy in the plane haunting him behind his eyelids.

There's a moment of silence and the crushing of the waves almost drowns out their heavy panting.

"Are there any others…?" he doesn't finish the sentence, and he doesn't need to.

"No", Dean mumbles and suddenly the remains of the adrenaline leaves him, exhausted and weary, almost wishing he had been unfortunate enough to get another seat because it hurts so much to still breathe, it hurts so much to exist. "I checked the plane, they're all… I couldn't find any other."

There's no answer, only a strained inhale. They lay there for a while, staring up at the bluest sky Dean has ever seen.

"I'm Castiel", the man says and breaks the silence. "Castiel Novak."

"Dean Winchester."

"I met you"; Castiel continues, and suddenly Dean realises where he recognises the man from. "Back at the airport. You bumped into me and were incredibly rude."

"Yeah, sorry for that."

"I figured you must've been nervous."

"I was. I hate flying." Dean pulls himself up in a sitting position, gazing blankly out over the ocean. Maybe if he stares long enough, rescue will show up. "And with good reason, too."

Castiel sits up as well, his blue eyes mirroring the ocean. He looks worn out, a lot older and tired than Dean recalls from the airport.

"How long has it been since we crashed?"

Dean checks his wrist watch, "nine hours, give or take."

"They should come for us soon, right?"

Dean just nods, the realization that they'll be rescued lifting some weight from his heart.

Don't think of the dead boy. Don't think of the dead people.

"We should lit a big fire, to make it easier for them to locate us", he says, despite feeling so exhausted he could collapse at the spot.

Castiel nods, heaving himself up from the ground. He wavers, gripping his forehead with one hand and reaching out with the other, but there's nothing to support himself at so he stumbles and lands on his back in the sand, groaning.

"Are you alright?" Dean says, worried because he sure as hell hasn't gone through all this shit to save this man, only for him to give up on life now. The thought of being abandoned terrifies him.

"Ugh, no…", Castiel mumbles, his eyes closed. "My head hurts."

Dean scoots closer, leaning over the man. It's first now that he notices the wound on the side of his head.

"Looks like you've gotten a pretty bad hit to the head… I'm no doctor, but I would guess you have a concussion."

Castiel groans, "you think?" before he passes out in the sand, leaving Dean alone to face the situation.

"No no no, don't you fucking pass out on me", Dean says, trying to shake the man awake again, but without success. With a groan he lets go of him, checking his pulse and when he feels the steady beat, he leans back and wipes his forehead.

Think rationally, Dean tells himself, Castiel's condition is what he would consider stable. He won't clock out all of a sudden.

Seems like Dean is on his own on this mission, though.

.

Dean manages to gather some wood, mostly dead branches and dry sticks, and dump them in a pile on the beach. It's painful and exhausting and he isn't quite sure how he endures it, but in a way he welcomes the pain and the distraction. It feels good to do something, because he's afraid that if he doesn't, he'll lose his mind.

Out of habit he always has a lighter in his pocket, and it's a relief to see that he hasn't lost it when he really needs it. He doesn't smoke, but he's always been handy and prepared for the worst. The lighter was his dad's and it does hold some sentimental value, which is why he insists on keeping it on him wherever he goes.

After lightening up the torch, Dean returns to where he left Castiel, bumping down on the sand beside him. When he checks his pulse again, the man stirs awake, blinking in confusion.

"Gabe..?" His words are blurred and Dean is pretty sure he's not a hundred percent there.

"Sorry man, there's no Gabe here", Dean says, pulling back his hand. Castiel frowns, his blue eyes dim.

"What-"

"Go back to sleep, it's getting late and I've set up a fire."

"Dean", Castiel says, surprised, as if the situation suddenly occurred to him and he's bewildered to be there.

"Yeah. I'm gonna sleep now, okay? No more talking."

Castiel nods and closes his eyes, seemingly asleep again within seconds.

Dean drifts off just as quickly.

* * *

Sam is woken up by the loud ringtone of his phone and he blinks rapidly, getting up from the chair in half a second. He quickly checks his watch, thinking that it must be Bobby who's calling to say that he and Dean are on their way back from the airport. Sam would've driven there himself, had he not had a terrible headache from the flight. Rubbing his eyes, he tries to remember the trail of thoughts he was lost in when he fell asleep in the chair. His back is sore and there's dried drool on his chin.

The ringing continues and Sam blinks, remembering that he ought to answer.

"Sam." Bobby's voice instantly pulls at something inside Sam, because he hasn't heard that tone since their dad died.

"Sam, the plane... Dean's plane is missing."

The world stops and crashes in on him.

Sam breathes but no air fills his lungs.

"What?"

.

And Bobby explains, telling Sam everything he knows but Sam can't comprehend the words, can't decipher their meaning. His mind is stuck on that one sentence that made his body turn to ice.

_ Dean's plane is missing._

Directly when Bobby hangs up, saying he'll be back at the hotel in less than half an hour, there's a knock on the door. Sam doesn't go to open. He doesn't move, doesn't even seem to notice that someone's knocking.

_ Dean's plane is missing._

He shouldn't even have been on that plane. It's all Sam's fault. If he hadn't for once had luck and won all that money on the lottery, if he had been able to convince Dean to come with them earlier, if he had booked another ticket for him, if he hadn't convinced Dean to come at all, if-

It's all Sam's fault. All those if's and it changes nothing. It's still Sam's fault.

Dean hates flying, he loathes it more than anything else, he's fucking terrified of it and Sam still convinced him to go.

"Sam?" Muffled voices outside the door, outside his head, outside the bubble he's stuck in.

"Sam, please open. It's Ellen and Jo."

Sam doesn't move.

The door opens a moment later but Sam barely notices it.  
_Dean's plane is missing.  
_If something has happened to Dean, if he is hurt or- or worse, the blame is all on Sam.  
Ellen comes in and kneels before Sam, her thumb against his chin as she tilts his head upwards to look at him.

"Sam", she says, her voice not piercing through the void inside him. "Sam, look at me."  
When a minute has passed and Sam hasn't moved an inch, she slaps him, right across the face and he gasps, and as if woken from a trance, he raises his gaze and meets Ellen's steady, worries eyes.  
"Ouch", Sam says breathlessly and holds a hand over his reddening cheek.  
"Sam…" Ellen says, her voice broken, and she holds him without saying another word. There are no words to say. She rocks him gently, stroking his long hair, like a mother hushing her crying baby, with such tenderness and care and yet with so much sorrow in her eyes.

The bed dips down and Sam feels another pair of arms around him when Jo joins them, burying her face in the crook of Sam's neck.  
For the longest of times, they just sit there, silent, worried, unable to find words big enough to break the silence.

When Bobby joins them thirty nine minutes later, Ellen is mindlessly pacing forth and back in the room, Jo is curled up on the bed and Sam is stuck in a constant loop of sitting down, burying his face in his palms, standing up, walking around, sitting down, checking his phone, standing up, pacing, sitting, pacing, sitting. He's mind is working on full speed but he can't hang onto a single thought and he is not fully aware of what's going on in his head or what he's thinking or anything. All he knows is that he doesn't want this. Any of this.

It all stops when Bobby knocks on the door. In a fragment of a second, Sam is there to open, almost desperate to hear what he has to say, whether it be news or the same information Sam already has been told.

.

There's no more news. The search team has left by now and there's nothing more they can do.

.

There is nothing and Dean's plane is still missing and Sam suddenly feels so tired, so very drained of energy and maybe if he sleeps, if he convinces himself this is a dream, he'll wake up in the morning and everything will be forgotten, a bad taste in his mouth to be washed out.

He can't live with himself if something has happened to Dean.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: so sorry for the delay of this chapter. and for all the mistakes in it because it's unbeta'd.  
i have been very busy with school and life in general, and i could say i'll try to upload more often but honestly i don't want to give you all false hope. however i won't drop this fic because i have invested blood, tears and pain in this fucking story.  
anyway, reviews are always very appreciated and I try to answer them all :)

* * *

Dean is starving, but he doesn't want to go back into the remains of the plane and look for whatever there is left of the disgusting airplane food. He isn't ready to face all the passengers who didn't share his luck, and his sprained ankle is pounding so painfully he isn't sure he'll be able to walk even if he wanted to.

The sand is burning hot and the sun is no cooler, but he doesn't feel like mustering up energy enough to move. Beside him, Castiel is breathing heavily, still sleeping. Dean lets him sleep, he probably needs it, and being awake right now isn't a pleasant experience anyway. Castiel is hopefully better off where he is. Judging by the nightmare Dean himself woke up from only an hour ago, the chances aren't that bright.

By now, Dean is about ninety eight percent sure that his wrist isn't broken, which he is immensely glad for, but it's not far from it. He'll need to find a stick to use as a makeshift splint for his ankle, and since he has no idea of how experienced Castiel is in the field of medication, Dean will most likely need to patch him up as well. He will do all that, once he gets something to eat.

Fuck.

Don't think of food.

Don't think of food.

Think of fucking anything but food.

With a groan, Dean heaves himself up, trying not to strain his sore body more than necessary. He's been really hungry before and if he just ignores the feeling long enough, it'll go away. At least he hopes it will.

The waves are rolling in steadily, an almost mesmerizing rhythm, softly crashing against the shore. A breeze rustles through the trees, not cool enough to soothe the scorching heat from the sun, yet not hot enough to worsen it. The air is thick to breathe and the brightness almost painful to the eyes.

Dean is selfish enough to wish Castiel could wake up so he won't have to be alone with his thoughts, alone in this place, but he's not careless enough to wake the man up. He needs the rest and Dean wouldn't make his condition any better by disturbing him.

.

A few minutes later, Dean has ripped off his own shirt, sitting in only a tank top, inspecting his wrist. It's blueish with bruises and hurts with each tiny movement, sending a sharp sting of pain through his arm. As careful as he possibly can, he squeezes it, feels it, slowly, slowly twists it, and he decides that no, it isn't broken. Still, he needs to make an improvised splint that will last until the search party finds them and he can get proper medical care.

The search party.

They should find them soon, shouldn't they?

Dean doesn't want to be stuck on this island much longer, and hopefully he wont. There should be ships and helicopters looking for them in this very moment, right?

He has no answers, only questions and wishes, so he discards the thought, even though it makes him feel a little better, and makes an attempt to stand. He manages, only his wounded foot wont support his weight and he isn't sure he'll be able to walk at all; he would crawl if it wasn't for his wrist. So technically, this means he is unable to get anywhere without it hurting like a bitch. But pain is a bitch Dean can handle.

Beside him, Castiel groans in his sleep and Dean's eyes are on him the very next moment, cautiously observing. The man shifts, eyes moving beneath his lids, but he doesn't wake, so Dean leaves him be.

.

The trees are tall and slender, stretching far up in the sky, with branches hanging down like curtains of green, hiding the secrets of the forest behind them, untouched by the hands of man. Bushes are growing wildly, huge enough to cover up a grown man. Dean feels strangely exposed in the forest, thousands of invisible eyes watching him from the distance, behind every trunk and stone. He idly wonders if there's more survivors who, like him, had been in the front of the plane and been thrown into the forest. Someone laying wounded and unconscious, lost among the plenty of trees.

He makes a walking stick out of a dead branch, tall enough to reach up to his head. Propping himself on it, he continues a while into the forest, before he decides he is too tired and hungry to go further. On his way back, he picks up a few smaller sticks for making a splint.

.

Castiel is awake when Dean returns. He has moved from where they slept to a spot closer to the ocean, watching it with unreadable eyes. When Dean sits down next to him, he turns his piercing blue eyes to him, a small frown adorning the bridge of his nose.

"Where have you been?"

"Could you help me out?"

They speak at the same time, both growing quiet for a moment afterwards, before Dean figures he's the one who should explain.

"I was in the forest to get these", he gestures with the sticks, "to make a splint for my wrist, and that's what I need your help with."

Castiel looks from the branches to Dean's wrist, nodding slowly.

"Have you made a splint before?"

The man almost looks offended at that, but Dean has other matters on his mind. He glances back at the spot in the sand where they slept and sees, to his comfort, that his shirt is exactly where he left it. Not that there's really anyone who would steal it around here.

"Get my shirt, over there", he says and points towards it. "We can tear it and use it as band-aid."  
Castiel nods again and gets up, if so a bit unsteady when he walks, and retrieves the piece of clothing. He kneels in the sand, grimacing as he does so, changing position and rubbing his knees. Dean finds his silence unnerving, but doesn't mention it, only watches when the man searches his pocket and tugs up a pocket knife. He works without spilling a word, swiftly slicing through the fabric to make strips long enough to tie around Dean's wrist.

"Give me the sticks and your arm", Castiel says, making Dean's attention snap from his hands to his face. He does as he's told and Castiel carefully starts with wrapping a larger piece of fabric around his wrist, then placing the sticks along his arm and lapping the strips tightly to secure the splint. His hands are gentle in their movements, as if such tenderness laid in his very nature.

"This is only temporary. You need a proper splint as soon as the rescue team comes."

It's Dean's turn to nod, "yeah, I know", he says as Castiel shifts to start tending to Dean's sprained ankle.

.

In the end, it's Castiel who approaches the plane to find food. He is gone for such a long time that Dean almost wonders if he died in there and for a moment he feels panic tighten his airways, but then the man returns, dropping a bunch of water bottles and wrapped packages of food in the sand, before sitting down. If he is awfully quiet as they eat, and if his eyes are rimmed red, Dean doesn't mention it. He's been in there himself, and he knows what a sight as gruesome can do to a person.

Instead of talking, Dean savours his food. It turns out the disgusting plane food isn't quite as disgusting when consumed out of pure hunger. He could definitely get used to it, if he has to, but he doubts there's enough in stock to last more than a few days, at tops. Which, in fact, doesn't matter, because they wont be here for a few days. By now there ought to be loads of people searching the sea for them, and someone ought to find them within the range of two days. It's a big sea, sure, but an airplane has this traceable black-box and besides they are obliged to follow a certain course, so they can't be completely lost, right?

Right?

Dean desperately wants to believe that, but truth is he has no idea if any of it is true. He is aware that his knowledge about airplanes is severely lacking, and it makes nothing better.

He is also aware of how instinctively his mind is working and doing all in its power to not think of Eddie-

Dean sucks in a breath, staring down at the plastic bowl of food and suddenly he isn't the slightest hungry. He only knew the man over the course of a few hours, but to think of him being dead... Dean has lost enough people in his life to handle grief, but that doesn't mean he is used to it or can ignore the growing wrongness he feels. Images of sweet, giggling kids pop up in his mind and he feels ill at the thought that Eddie will never meet his eagerly awaited grandchildren, never lift them up in his embrace and swing them around, never take them fishing in a small boat on the endless sea, never read them bedtime stories before they fall asleep, never-... never do anything with them.

Death is final and relentless.

But it wasn't supposed to end like this, they weren't supposed to die like this, not here, not now. Yet they had all ended here, all but himself and Castiel.

"Dean." Castiel's voice pierce through his thoughts and Dean snaps up, looking at him. "Are you alright? You have barely touched the food."

Dean lowers his eyes to the bowl in his hands, realising the man is right.

"Yeah-... Yeah, I'm fine", he says and scoops in a full fork of food in his mouth, chewing intently, like it was an important task to focus on.

Thankfully, Castiel swallows his lie without further questioning. Or maybe he doesn't, maybe he sees straight through it, but either way they let the subject slip and Dean empties his bowl in silence.

"So, how's the head?"

Castiel peeks at him through his lashes, shrugging.

"Better. Though I still feel dizzy."

Dean nods.

Way to start a conversation, huh.

They sit in silence, watching waves roll in and fade out, over and over again.

"Who's Gabe?" Dean finally says, because well, it's not really any of his business, but he's curious and the silence makes him uncomfortable. Apparently, it is nothing Castiel has expected to hear, because he perks up, brows furrowed in confusion, as if he's trying to figure out how Dean knows the name.

"What?"  
"Gabe. The name you slurred when you woke up from unconsciousness earlier. Who is it?"

"Oh." Castiel casts his eyes downwards, the confusion turning into something sadder, something rueful, something like regret. He doesn't answer instantly, and Dean has time to think that he shouldn't have asked and is about to say never mind it, when the man speaks again.  
"He is my brother. I suppose I mistook you for him." He doesn't say more, and Dean leaves it at that, because his mind is already racing elsewhere.

_Sam._

The tug at Dean's chest is painful and real and more than anything he wants to talk to Sam, tell him everything will turn out fine, just as everything always does in the end, tell him they'll be together again and this will be over before they know it. He can't wait to when the rescue team arrives and brings him back to his family, because damn, he misses them so much.

.

.

Beneath the scorching sun they spend the afternoon building a shelter, on the border to the forest, not close enough to the plane to be in the risk zone would it suddenly explode, yet not too far away for it to be straining to go there. Castiel does most lifting and dragging, since his limbs aren't severely injured and he can move normally, while Dean is assigned the task of building and structuring the whole thing.

As everything else, it's only temporarily, only made for lasting the few days until the search party finds them and brings them home. They both agrees that having a shelter is a good idea, though, because whether it will be today or in two days that they get rescued, having a place to cover them from the sun and to rest in makes the situation feel less... Awful.

.

Dean has never minded being injured. Not that he likes it, but he knows how to handle pain and he knows how to ignore it until it goes away. The pain is not what bothers him. It's the feeling of being a cripple, of being incapable of working hard and being useful that makes him hate his situation more than anything. Watching other people work while he can do nothing is horrible, and especially now, here, when there's only Castiel and him and he can do squat. He's supposed to build the shelter and he can barely do that because he obviously can't use his splinted hand, and he needs his undamaged hand to hold him uptight with the walking stick because his foot wont carry him, so it's a fucking pain in the ass to try to build anything at all. Although if he doesn't do it, Castiel will be doing all the work and Dean would hate that, to not only feel useless but to actually be it.

Then there's the thing with Castiel.

Dean tries to not notice it, he really does. He tries to ignore the way Castiel stares at him when he thinks he's not looking, but it's hard because it's so fucking obvious, and god it makes Dean so uncomfortable that he wants to yell at the guy to stop molesting him with his eyes. What the fuck is his problem?

Sure, Dean is aware that he is an attractive guy; he has taken advantage of that fact countless of times to get it good with the ladies, but he's not even sure that's why Castiel is staring at him. He's not sure about fucking anything when it comes to Castiel. They guy acts weirdly and he has this atmosphere around him that makes Dean feel like he's being tested every singe second of the day. It hasn't even been a day yet and still Dean has had time to think that if he absolutely had to crash on a deserted island with someone, he'd never ever pick a guy like Castiel.

Realising what he just thought, Dean bites his lip and glances over to where the man is, currently dragging a huge-ass piece of metal that supposedly is going to be used for their shelter. Dean feels like a douche, but he can't help it. Everything about Castiel sets him off.

.

Several hours has passed when they finally decides to rest. Dean slumps back against a tree trunk, closing his eyes and breathing heavily. He's not in a bad shape, rather the opposite, but being in constant pain does take its toll on him, and to say he has been straining himself is an understatement. When Cas joins him a moment later, however, Dean doesn't even mention it. Complaining isn't really his style.

Then Dean feels a drip on the tip of his nose. And another, on his shoulder, then on his cheek, his bare foot, his neck and suddenly the whole world around then is getting soaked by a heavy downpour. There is, what, one cloud on the sky and it just _happens_to rain on their island. Forget that, he can't even see the sky for all the rain.

"You gotta be fucking shitting me", Dean says, because hell, the rain isn't even soothingly cold or comfortable. "God has some damn nerve to be pissing on us after all this. What the fuck is his problem?"

Castiel gives him a long look, one of those intense, intrusive stares that makes Dean feel both extremely uncomfortable and strangely flustered. He isn't used to having such immediate attention to only himself and over the short time that has passed since they wounded up as the only survivors on a -presumingly- deserted island, he has already received that glance a few too many times. What annoys him to no end is that he has absolutely what is going on in Castiel's head behind those eyes.

"God is in the rain", Castiel finally says, after closing his eyes and turning his face towards the sky. There's a faint smile on his lips and it ticks Dean off.

"Oh great. Just what I want, being soaked in God's pee", says Dean and futilely wipes the water from his forehead. He wants off this island and he wants it to happen now. Where is that goddamn rescue party?

Castiel snaps his eyes open, brows furrowed in a frown and Dean wonders why no one seem to have introduced the guy to sarcasm.

"What?" says Castiel.

Dean rolls his eyes and leans his head back against the tree, no longer bothering to try to wipe the water from his face.

"I'm just saying, God is a total ass."

"Don't speak bad about God", Castiel says and all Dean can do is to arch his brows and snort, because _seriously_? That's what he cares about?

"We're stuck on some freaking godforsaken island and you get upset because I insult god? If god existed, why would he let our plane crash and kill everybody except you and me?"

Castiel sighs and shakes his head, his lips pursed tightly.

"You have misunderstood the whole concept of God, Dean. God isn't evil, God is love and he doesn't wish anything bad upon any one. It's humans, abusing their free will to-"

"Could you just shut up about god?" says Dean, knowing he sounds harsher and meaner than he intends too, but he doesn't bother caring or apologizing. The last thing he wants to hear about now is god, because he knows that if god exists, he has since long abandoned Dean.

It has instant effect, as Castiel grows silent and casts his eyes downwards, which does absolutely nothing to improve Dean's mood. Castiel looks like a kicked puppy and Dean fights the guilt brewing in his gut.

"Seriously, how hard did you hit your head?"

"You shouldn't mock people for their faith, Dean", Castiel says quietly and he sounds serious, more serious than Dean has heard him before, but he doesn't seem angry or upset, just tired and secluded.

"How can you have faith in a situation like this? If god does exists, he's a fucking ass."  
"It is in situations like this that people need faith the most. Praying helps people coping with difficult situations that they do not wish to face on their own."

"Yeah, well, I ain't having none of that shit", Dean says and snorts. "God can stick his praying up his ass and fuck off."

"No one asked you to believe", says Castiel, strained and resolute.

"This whole 'god-thing' is fucking bullshit and the sooner you realise it, the better-"

"Can we please not fight?" Castiel cuts him off, his voice snappish but so tired and irritated that it shuts Dean up.

Dean sucks in his lower lip, biting it.

"Yeah, sure", he says shortly and stands up. "You know what, I'm gonna go and see if there's anything we can use from the plane."

He leaves before Castiel has a chance to interject or stop him, or comment that Dean shouldn't go anywhere, because he can barely walk properly without his walking stick. What dean wants the most right now, what he needs, is to be left the fuck alone because he can't take a minute more of that guy's company. The moment he walks off through the heavy rain, however, he realises he doesn't want this either, because the solitude weighs darkly on his mind and he is afraid of being alone with his thoughts. But turning back and facing Castiel is something he wants even less, so he keeps on walking.

When he reaches the plane, completely soaked, all he does is to stop, staring blankly at the remains of a purposely safe machine. He just stares, unable to move, or at least unwilling to. All those people, headed to a destination they'll never reach and out of all of them, Dean was one of the two to survive.

Why?

Why would he deserve to live more than anyone else? Why would his life be worth enough to spare it?

If there's a God above, Dean is certain he's a complete, sadistic asshole and has the most fucked up sense of justice ever because this isn't fair, this isn't right and Dean just wants to scream because he's so angry and he's so scared and he's so, so small but there comes no sound over his lips, not a whimper, even less a scream.

He stands like that for a long time, eyes looking but not seeing, not quite frozen at the spot but likewise unable to move, with a heart that beats so stubbornly and pumps blood through his veins without hesitation, keeping him alive, forcing him to continue.

Then he thinks of Sam.

His baby brother Sammy who's probably sick with worry and Dean suddenly feels ill and he has to grip the walking stick tightly to not collapse on the ground. Whatever happens, he has to stay alive because Sam needs him and what kind of brother would he be if he never came home?

.

"I have noticed that you become very rude when you are nervous or scared."

Dean jerks, his head snapping at the direction of the sound painfully fast.

"Dude, don't fucking sneak up on me like that!" he says and tries to cover up his indignant reaction by straightening his back and taking a few steps back.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't startle me-", when Castiel gives him an arched brow, Dean just shakes his head exasperatedly and sighs. "Look, just don't do it again, okay? It's not cool."

Castiel nods and if Dean was a lesser man, he wouldn't feel guilty at how the guy seems so crestfallen and low-spirited. Before he can stop himself, before he even has time to think of what he's doing, he speaks.

"Hey, about what I said before- The whole God-thing, I didn't mean it."

He can feel Castiel's eyes searching his, but he keeps his eyes locked on something in the forest, not wanting to meet the other's sharp gaze.

"I understand your lack of faith, Dean. I have seen it countless times, and it is alright. I will not force you to trust in something you don't believe in, but-"

"But you have the right to, yeah, I know", Dean finishes his sentence, shrugging lightly. Apologizing isn't on his list of strong traits, and even now it is hard to. "And in this situation, you probably need it more than ever. I get it."

Castiel lightly touches Dean's shoulder, a comforting gesture, but pulls it back instantly, as if burned by the contact.

"Let's get back to the shelter. There's nothing more we can do tonight."

Dean nods, absent mindedly glancing at the remains plane, before he turns and follows Castiel.


End file.
